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Something eased, almost imperceptibly, between them. They would not pretend. They would begin with truth.
Inside, Jimena found shelves lined with jars and bundles of drying plants. Chamomile. Willow. Comfrey. Names her grandmother had whispered over her shoulder in a garden that smelled of orange blossom. Her hands moved by memory, sorting, tying, labeling in neat script. When Tlacael returned and saw her work, his attention sharpened.
“My grandmother taught me,” she said, cheeks warming. “It wasn’t considered a suitable hobby for a lady. But I loved it.”
He nodded. “The desert has its own pharmacy. Some of it I do not know.”
“Perhaps we can learn from each other,” she offered.
That was the first agreement they forged without paperwork. It would not be the last.
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